


First Rule's No Rules

by Barkour



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Bluepulse Bash, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barkour/pseuds/Barkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bart plays just a little dirty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Rule's No Rules

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Bluepulse Bash, Day #6: "Win."

Fall came and school came back with it; with school came (blugh) schoolwork.

“Blugh?” said Jaime.

He looked up from his laptop. He’d a textbook open next to his thigh and paper scattered all across the bed. Bart had been tragically relegated to the foot of the bed where Jaime could ignore him.

“Bl _ugh_ ,” Bart said again. He rested his chin on his hands, folded together on the bed before him. His feet dangled off the edge. Absently he kicked them so they hummed. “Grife. It’s so boring. Why do we have to do it anyway? I already know everything…”

“Teachers need it so they know you know everything,” said Jaime. He’d already gone back to his essay. His fingers moved easily over the keys; his eyes were on the screen. “Plus it helps you retain information. And some students need to do a little extra work to understand it. And I know what you got in pre-algebra. You gotta double check your work, ese. Don’t rush through it.”

“Okay,” said Bart. “Let me rewind and replay the highlights. But it’s boring!”

Bart stuck his hands out dramatically. This got him a nudge: Jaime pushed Bart’s shoulder with his foot, so Bart flipped over onto his back to stare at the ceiling.

“There’s lots of other stuff we could do,” said Bart, “stuff that isn’t a, pointless—” He started ticking off his fingers. “B for boring, 3, why do you have to stay inside doing this when it’s nicer outside—”

“When I’m done,” said Jaime. “If I want to get into a good school with a good pre-med program, I have to make sure my grades are up. Like, all the time. Gotham University doesn’t want anyone with a three point nothing GPA.”

Bart crossed his arms and pillowed his head on them. Jaime had one leg bent so the foot was under his other thigh; that leg was stretched out. The toes were relaxed. His foot rested, pointed toward Bart.

“I just think this program’s bugged up,” Bart said. “You have to go to school so you can go to school some more? When do you get to do anything you want to do?”

“When I don’t have other stuff to do. Besides,” Jaime said, and he glanced at Bart and smiled, just a little flicker at the corners, “I’m not like you, perezoso. Believe it or not, I like doing homework.”

“But it takes you forever,” Bart complained. “We never do anything fun anymore because you’re always doing homework and working.”

Jaime smiled again, the sort of smile that was almost like a laugh. His eyelids dipped. He had a mess of black eyelashes, and when he smiled like that with his lashes so very black against his dark cheeks— Bart ran his tongue along the backs of his teeth. His mouth was very dry, so his tongue stuck.

“C’mon,” Bart said. He pushed up onto his hands, leaning back on his arms. “Let’s go illax-chay outside. It’s way cooler out there than it is in here. The sun’s out—man, do you even know how good you guys have it? And you stay inside when you could be outside! Smelling the grass! Kicking up dirt! Doing other stuff!”

Jaime sighed. His shoulders slumped. For a moment, his hands were still on the keys.

“Bart, I told you. I gotta finish this essay first.” Then he looked at Bart with his mouth drawn up, like he was making some great concession here. “Listen, I just have to write two more pages, okay? And then we can hang out. You think even you can wait that long?”

“No,” Bart muttered. That was like asking Bart to count out every second in a minute: torture.

He drummed his fingers on the rumpled bedspread and eyed Jaime. This had to be one of those tests Jay talked about: _sometimes, son, you have to take it slow._ Bart hated taking it slow. Taking it slow was for people who weren’t Bart.

Jaime’s eyes flickered; he looked to the keys and then back to the screen. The top row of teeth showed as he bit, only briefly, at his lip. Then the teeth were gone again. When Jaime concentrated like that, he got a little furrow between his eyebrows. His lips would _just_ push out, as if on a word he kept in his mouth. Bart’s fingers itched.

So—he’d play a game, a game just for Bart. If Jaime didn’t want to play with him, that was cool. That was mondo, totalitarily fine. Right up his gutter ball. Bart was in it to win it. He’d crash the system and then Jaime would be all like, you’re right, Bart, homework is dumb. Let’s do something way cooler than this.

His opening move: Bart traced a line up the bottom of Jaime’s foot with his fingertip.

Jaime jerked. His toes arched back, and he glared at Bart over the laptop.

“Man, glue your feet to the floor or something,” Jaime said. “You distracting me’s not going to make this go any faster.”

Bart shrugged and smiled. “Sorry.”

Jaime eased; his foot came back down. His toes eased, too. The muted clicking resumed as he started typing again. Bart waited till Jaime glanced at his textbook, and then Bart bent to kiss the tip of Jaime’s big toe. His lips got just around the curve, and Jaime nearly kicked Bart in the face.

“Bart!” said Jaime. His toes curled in tightly. He drew his foot back. “What d’you think you’re doing right now?”

“I was hungry,” Bart said. He batted his eyes. Jaime looked at him like Bart’s brain had fallen out of his nose.

“What,” said Jaime, “you’re a cannibal now? Look, if you’re so bored, why don’t you go pester someone else?”

“I don’t want to,” said Bart. “I just want to pester you. Why would I want to mess around with someone else?”

He got up on his hands and his knees. As he crawled up the bed like that, Jaime said in warning, “I’m not going to be held responsible for this.”

A sheet of notebook paper crumpled under Bart’s knee. He was up by Jaime now, their noses very close, so close that Jaime’s breath was at Bart’s throat. Bart let his eyelashes drop over his eyes. He smiled like he was thinking something clever, something wicked. What he was thinking was Jaime had gorgeous, dark eyes. He didn't really want to go outside anymore. If they went outside, Bart thought, they couldn't do this.

“That’s okay,” said Bart. “I’m cool. I’m responsible.”

“You’re like the least responsible person I know,” said Jaime.

His eyes had lowered. He was looking at Bart’s mouth, probably. Or maybe at Bart’s chin, but Bart didn’t know why Jaime would be looking at that unless he had a new chin fetish or something. Well – Bart took it as an opening.

Jaime’s lips parted. The laptop thumped onto the bedspread, and then Jaime’s hand was curving around Bart’s jaw. His fingers slipped into Bart’s hair; he cupped Bart’s ear. Bart bit at Jaime’s lip, dragged at it, sucked on it so that Jaime groaned very quietly in his throat and pushed closer so Bart would do it again. The thumb at Bart’s ear stroked back across the swell of his cheek, pulling sparks out of the bone beneath. Bart wanted closer, too.

Jaime ran his hand down Bart’s side; he settled on Bart’s hip; his fingers dug in; he held Bart pinned there next to Jaime. And Bart—he wasn’t about to take that lying down. He got his hand up the front of Jaime’s t-shirt. A light trail of hair rose out of Jaime’s jeans and tapered to a close at his navel. When Bart ran his thumbnail over Jaime’s belly button, the hand on Bart’s hip tensed like a vise clamping down.

Bart licked at Jaime’s teeth and rubbed his hand up then down Jaime’s tightly muscled gut, then again, faster; and Jaime came up suddenly to pull Bart to him or to push against Bart. Either way, Jaime’s thigh was thick and very warm between Bart’s knees, and his breath shivered in Bart’s mouth.

“Ha ha,” Bart said. "I win. Again. You're never going to beat the famous Bart Allen at his own game."

"What game?" Jaime slid his thigh up. "When did we start a game? You planning on letting me in on that?"

"It's complicated," said Bart, "don't worry about it. You can catch up later. But it's going to be hard, I got such a big lead."

He worried at Jaime’s lips and got a hitching sort of grumble in response, the sort of grumble that got Bart’s heart shuddering hard against his ribs. Jaime brought his fingers down out of Bart’s hair and pressed them to his lips. A tactical error: Bart licked the tips, then the knuckles, and Jaime curled his fingers so they caught behind Bart’s lip. His thumb pinched. Bart got the message: _shut up_ ; and he nipped gently at Jaime’s fingers to say _like you could even make me._

Jaime said, “You better hope I get at least a B on this paper,” and then he pulled Bart on top of him and gave everything up: his mouth, his heart, the supple line of his throat, his strong arms, everything he had to offer and whatever else he had besides that, too.

As usual, victory was sweet.


End file.
